"There will be an answer...let it be."
Let It Be, by The Beatles
There are times when patience is more painful than defeat.
Patience has become my nemesis, even while I know it may become my saving grace. Because it gnaws at me like a dog on a bone, I understand not only must I allow it to invade; I need to find a way to welcome it willingly, to yield to its authority, to sip tea with it and exchange pleasantries while it extracts my every remaining stronghold of resistance. Patience is not my nature. To submit to it is like learning to write upside-down and backwards with my left hand.
As with all necessary lessons for the reluctant and the timid (or the defiant and incorrigible), the Universe is quite happy to wrap you in chains of circumstance where the only release is through the lesson you seem most determined not to learn. There is one key and it is freely available - unless, of course, you'd rather rub away at the links bit by bit with a nail file. The choice is yours really - the easy way or the hard way - no matter.
For me, the easy way is the hard way.
I like closure. I am a list-writer and I am an item-checker-offer. When I complete something - check - I can move on. If something remains incomplete, I ruminate and fret over it. I devise strategies in my head to hasten a final result. In the absence of a happy ending, I would prefer a bad ending over no ending at all. The unfinished for me is as intolerable as the tingles that come when your foot falls asleep and suddenly starts to wake up. I find it very hard to endure peacefully.
An open parentheses needs a closed parentheses.
How long should one wait for an answer from another? At what point does lingering indecision become the decision? Over what distance in time does a plaintive call return as a haunting and lonely echo?
There will be an answer...of some sort.
Let it be.
Take refuge in the warmth of the tea.
Tea in the Sahara.
I wonder when patience turns to foolishness, when hope becomes a delusion. When might love reveal itself to be a mirage? Is there yet an oasis to be found for the diligent and resolute?
Hindsight is the only thing that peddles certainty, but even that decays over time. Regret, like patience, is something I may yet have to face with as much dignity as I can gather. There may be lush vibrance on the other side of this, or only dry brittle bones. One never knows, but it will be only through submission to patience that the chains will fall away in their own good time.
Tick tock,
WS
Let It Be, by The Beatles
There are times when patience is more painful than defeat.
Patience has become my nemesis, even while I know it may become my saving grace. Because it gnaws at me like a dog on a bone, I understand not only must I allow it to invade; I need to find a way to welcome it willingly, to yield to its authority, to sip tea with it and exchange pleasantries while it extracts my every remaining stronghold of resistance. Patience is not my nature. To submit to it is like learning to write upside-down and backwards with my left hand.
As with all necessary lessons for the reluctant and the timid (or the defiant and incorrigible), the Universe is quite happy to wrap you in chains of circumstance where the only release is through the lesson you seem most determined not to learn. There is one key and it is freely available - unless, of course, you'd rather rub away at the links bit by bit with a nail file. The choice is yours really - the easy way or the hard way - no matter.
For me, the easy way is the hard way.
I like closure. I am a list-writer and I am an item-checker-offer. When I complete something - check - I can move on. If something remains incomplete, I ruminate and fret over it. I devise strategies in my head to hasten a final result. In the absence of a happy ending, I would prefer a bad ending over no ending at all. The unfinished for me is as intolerable as the tingles that come when your foot falls asleep and suddenly starts to wake up. I find it very hard to endure peacefully.
An open parentheses needs a closed parentheses.
How long should one wait for an answer from another? At what point does lingering indecision become the decision? Over what distance in time does a plaintive call return as a haunting and lonely echo?
There will be an answer...of some sort.
Let it be.
Take refuge in the warmth of the tea.
Tea in the Sahara.
I wonder when patience turns to foolishness, when hope becomes a delusion. When might love reveal itself to be a mirage? Is there yet an oasis to be found for the diligent and resolute?
Hindsight is the only thing that peddles certainty, but even that decays over time. Regret, like patience, is something I may yet have to face with as much dignity as I can gather. There may be lush vibrance on the other side of this, or only dry brittle bones. One never knows, but it will be only through submission to patience that the chains will fall away in their own good time.
Tick tock,
WS
RSS Feed